


Disaster, Of Course

by 23Murasaki



Series: (re)Written!Verse [15]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: (But For Enemies!), Content Warning: Ethan Being Himself, Gen, Meet-Cute, Meet-UnCute?, Really Bad Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 09:33:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14234370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/23Murasaki/pseuds/23Murasaki
Summary: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce arrives in Sunnydale, and it's really a disaster from the first moment. He really should've known better than to take a helpful stranger at face value.(Or: Why you shouldn't let strange men you run into on the street help you move in, a case study featuring Wesley and Ethan.)





	Disaster, Of Course

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce arrives in Sunnydale seventeen hours and forty-six minutes late and missing a suitcase, then promptly spills whipped cream masquerading as coffee all over his shoes and then gets lost trying to find his flat. It really doesn't bode well for the future of this assignment. Nothing bodes all that well about the future of his assignment: not the location, not the two unmonitored Slayers, not the active Hellmouth, not the fact that he's to replace a man who is still — at times sneeringly, at times worriedly, at times matter-of-factly in Dr. Spear's clipped tones — referred to as _Ripper_ Giles.

Of course, none of it is supposed to be the way it, well, is. There's supposed to be one Slayer — that girl who had been in Dorcas Holland's charge in Boston — not three, and the girl who had slipped through the cracks — which they really aren't supposed to do anymore, it isn't the eighteenth century anymore — in Los Angeles is supposed to be three years dead, and quite frankly so is Mr. Rupert — _Ripper_ — Giles. But no, instead the girl is alive, three Slayers are active simultaneously — though at least Mr. Samuel Zabuto trains his properly — and Wesley needs to wrest control of this whole debacle somehow from Mr. Giles, who has allegedly gone rogue. Again. On an active Hellmouth. In a sun-drenched town that Wesley is pretty sure is a labyrinth, because he could swear to the fact that he has gone up this street before but somehow nothing looks familiar or like his map.

He's checking the map for the umpteenth time and trying not to trip on his remaining suitcase when he rounds a corner and runs headlong into someone. Everything goes flying: his map, his suitcase, his wallet and passport, the stranger's book and briefcase and a thermos of actual black coffee that falls, spills and rolls down the street on its merry way. Wesley stammers his apologies, and hastily rescues the book from the spilled coffee and ends up sitting on his heels on the ground holding the thing because he's not entirely sure how to proceed.

"You're quite alright," says the stranger gently. His accent is north London with a hint of something Wesley can't place, but right now that sounds almost like home. Has he really only been away from the Council two days? It feels like an eternity.

"Your book," he says, feeling utterly useless as he holds it out. It's a translation of Michaelis's _Pneumologie_. "Unharmed, but, er, the Lackley translation's superior, I've found."

"Alas," says the stranger, taking back his book and fumbling for his briefcase. "The nearest Lackley's in Arizona. I doubt the university would let me bill them for the trip." He does look like a professor, Wesley thinks, once he's gathered his wits enough to actually look at the man. He's tall and thin, wrapped in a tweed jacket that's patched at the elbows and too wide at the shoulders, and he has a gentle sort of smile. "You look lost,” he says. 

"Can't find—well, anything," Wesley admits. "Er, I can find you a Lackley, I have a Lackley, hold on." He's been awake a full 24 hours, though, and his hands are shaking and the latches on his suitcase feel like a Gordian knot.

"Hey, steady there," says the professor softly. "How about we point you in the right direction first, before you unpack your things all over the street." Wesley nods weakly. The professor helps him up and scrutinizes his map. "Here, that's were you're going?" Wesley nods again, and is rewarded with another kind smile. "Then you're really not far. Seems you just got lost in the roundabouts. I can walk you there." And without waiting for an argument, the professor seizes Wesley's suitcase and leads on.

"Thank you,” Wesley mumbles, and tells himself his eyes sting from the harsh sunlight and lack of sleep, because he's a fully trained Watcher on assignment and doesn't have time for any sort of emotional problems.

"It's no trouble," the professor says lightly. "This town is an abomination. Suburbia atop a conflagration of ley lines and whatnot, it's really a miracle anyone gets anywhere. I wouldn't come down from campus at all, only Rupert's the only one with anything approaching a research library on the occult." The name sets up a flag.

"Rupert Giles?" he asks. The professor hums.

"One and the same. Are you a friend of his?"

"Oh. No, no, I'm..." Wesley hesitates. "I'm to replace him.” It’s more or less the truth. 

"Left here—there you go. Did he overstay his visa?" Wesley isn't entirely sure what a visa is, and his face may reflect that. The professor laughs quietly. "Ah, no, the sort of replacement that comes equipped with superior translations of texts not commonly found in high school libraries. I see. Dare I ask what exactly you are...?"

"Watchers," says Wesley, who really shouldn't talk that much but can't seem to stop himself. "We're, we're with the Watchers' Council. He, er, well, there are regulations, there was a test, I'm his replacement." Yes, he's Ripper Giles's replacement in a job that was supposed to kill him in a place that's trying to kill everyone. It feels a bit less like an honor from that angle.

"Well, I don't know what that is, but I'm sure I'll like you better," says the professor. "Rupert is a nightmare. Four-oh-two, four-oh-four, ah, here's your building. Come on, then." And they drag Wesley's things up three flights of stairs to the right flat, and at least he has the key. It would be worse if he didn't have the key, or if he was still wandering the streets alone.

"How... bad is it?" he asks. The professor blinks at him, uncomprehending. "You said Mr. Giles is a nightmare."

"There's talk of demon summoning, if you'd believe it," says the professor. "Not sure I do, but I am purely a layman." Wesley shivers, because he isn't a layman. He's heard the stories. He knows what a Watcher gone evil can do.

"I'd believe it," he says, as he hoists his suitcase onto the gray couch and fumbles with the latches again. Behind him, he hears the click of a lock, and wonders dully if his rescuer has left him.

"You'd be a bloody fool," says the professor, only his accent has shifted completely and his voice is sharp and cold. When he turns, slowly, fearfully, he sees the man has shed his tweeds and his gentle smile at once: his face is sharp-edged and his eyes are black, sorcerous black and his shirt is deep blood red. "Don't they teach you not to invite strangers into your home in Watcher school? Though, really, if Ripper is anything to judge by they don't teach you people anything at all..."

Wesley wants to say something brave and intelligent, but he's neither of those things so all he manages to do is whimper and stare. Something dark is winding its way around the stranger's fingers, dark and twisted and wrong. The man smiles, and the expression makes his black eyes gleam with an inhuman light.

"Shh, shh, shh. Hush, little Watcher," he murmurs. "Hush, now. None of that. I'm not here to hurt you— I could've done that in broad daylight. We're just going to have a chat, you and I." The smile is too wide and the eyes are too dark and Wesley has the sudden, idiotic thought that he's not facing a man at all, he's facing something from old stories he isn't supposed to remember, from old nightmares he isn't suppose to have had, one of the creatures that stole away children and made people dance themselves dead as tribute to mad gods. "What's your name, little Watcher?" it—he asks. You aren't supposed to tell them. You aren't supposed to tell them.

"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce,” he whispers. The stranger tilts his head, still smiling.

"Wesley Wyndam-Pryce,” he repeats, and his tone sets the hair on the back of Wesley's neck on end. "Little gentleman, aren't you, pet? I like that. Gentlemen have some honor, you see, they can often be held to their word. And you, pet? Do you keep your word?" Wesley nods mutely. "Good boy. Now, your precious Council has decided to kick Rupert to the curb, but I can't really hold with that decision, you see. It means ever so much to him, and he'd be quite upset were he to be thrown out. Again." For a moment the spell, if it is one, is broken, because the stranger looks so pettily annoyed that Wesley can almost relax because he understands pettily annoyed, but then he blinks and the moment is gone. "Besides, I have it on good authority that he's quite talented at this whole Watcher business... Tell me, pet—“ Wesley flinches. “—There is a whole set of formalities that need to be gone through to throw him out, no? Reviews, paperwork, signatures...?"

“I—um—er—yes," he manages to say, bobbing his head. "There's, um, a formal, um..." The stranger gestures for him to go on. "There-is-a-formal-review-process-that-has-already-been-initiated."

"And you are reporting back," says the stranger calmly. They take people away, in the old stories, and leave constructs of wood and feather and grass behind, dolls animated to do the bidding of their creators while the victim is trapped in a parallel world. Perhaps the construct-doll would serve its purpose better than Wesley could, here on a Hellmouth where Watchers are sent to fail.

"Yes," he says, and thinks dully that his fate is sealed. That's alright. That's something of a relief. "Weekly reports to Mr. Travers to assess situation and confirm rogue action. Monthly report to Dr. Spears for psychological assessment. Strike team to be called in if target refuses to cooperate at time of removal."

"Rogue action," scoffs the stranger. "Rupert Giles hasn't taken a rogue action in twenty years."

"He sent you," says Wesley, feeling bold in the face of certain doom. That's the thing about certainty. The stranger blinks, then throws back his head and laughs.

"Goodness, pet, you really don't understand, do you?" he says. "No, Rupert didn't send me—he doesn't even know I'm here. He doesn't even know you're here, I'd wager. Poor man thought you were arriving yesterday."

"I was. Flight delays," says Wesley. The stranger nods.

"Ah. Well then. Powers beyond the mortal ken, those," he says. "What I'm trying to say is, I'm looking out for Rupert's best interests, even though he himself would righteously throw himself off a cliff. And what's in his best interest now is for him to keep his job. Were your reports to confirm his..." The stranger narrows his black eyes and waves a hand vaguely. "...Loyalty? Competence? Stuffiness? Willingness to burn the Glove of Myhnegon and send the lunatic trying to wield it back to the Council with a bow on her? Whatever is appropriate. Were you to confirm it in your reports, then I think you would safely avoid any of the more gruesome tragic accidents that can befall a handsome young man newly arrived on a Hellmouth in a foreign country. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Um," says Wesley.

"Of course," the stranger continues, unperturbed, "there is no need to make mention of me in any of those. Rupert certainly hasn't. That would just bring more attention here, and then there would be so many uncomfortable questions, and you'd have to explain who-knows-what to who-knows-whom... Well, it would be unpleasant."

"Um," says Wesley again. The room is spinning a little. The stranger is still smiling.

"I think you will be very positive about Rupert's work in your reports," he says lightly. "After all, the present circumstances are hardly ideal, and he has been working so very hard to keep things under control here. If he is a bit overemotional... well, the man has been stationed on an active Hellmouth for three years without a single vacation and hasn't gone utterly mad—I’d call it a victory for the forces of order. Do I make myself clear?"

"You want me to lie," Wesley says.

"Not really," says the stranger. "I think it will be just as close to the truth as what your masters at the Council want you to say. I just want the truth as it benefits my friend... and me, by extension. It's really quite simple." Is it? Will he arrive at the school that's built on the Hellmouth's mouth to find a man called Ripper fighting the good fight and battling evil and chaos in all its forms? Or will he find a rogue Watcher with a history of dark magic and an uncomfortably personal investment in a Slayer that isn't supposed to live? But that's the problem, after all: He doesn't know what he'll find. But the finding?

"Yes," he says quietly. "Simple."

"So we have a deal?" he asks. "You have to say it—give me your word as a gentleman, pet!" You aren't supposed to tell them your name. You aren't supposed to make deals with them. You aren't supposed to eat their food or drink their wine or dance when they offer a hand, and you're absolutely not supposed to sleep where they can snatch you up.

"You have my word as a Watcher," says Wesley, who is a coward, who has always been a coward who follows orders to the letter. "I'll do what you ask." The stranger's grin goes wide and his eyes go bright.

"Splendid, then," he says, as he claps his hands together. The sound is much too loud. "In that case, I'm sure we will all get along wonderfully."

**Author's Note:**

> NGL, I laughed all the way through writing this.


End file.
